


A Fox's Wedding

by konekomata



Series: Amongst the Sunshower [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Eastern folklore in Western literature, F/M, Gen, Grandma Fox ships these two, Grandma Fox tries to remember that, Kitsune aren't human guys, M/M, Multi, This ship has ruined me, Thranduil Has A Heart, What am I doing?, adorbs!Bardlings, and what it was like to be human, can't promise sassy!Bard but i will try, i have never cried so much for a pairing before, i have no idea what i'm doing and where it's gonna go, i just read one Barduil story and suddenly i'm desperate for more, i just want them to have a happy ending okay?!?!, oh god these adorkables, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konekomata/pseuds/konekomata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was once a simple farmer that married a fox but this story isn't about them.</p>
<p>No, this is a story about their descendant who made room in his heart to love an elvenking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Farmer and the Fox-Wife

_The story that I am about to tell you, my children, is how it was told to me by my mother and how it was told to her by her father- from parent to child for almost a thousand years hence._

_It is not of Girion, past Lord of Dale, ruined by dragon-fire called to the Lonely Mountain by the greed of dwarves.  
No, it is a tale of a simple farmer who married a fox. _

_Impossible? Well, that is a truth and a lie. True, that one cannot marry a fox as one may marry a Man or a Man a woman but this was no ordinary fox. Yet, if I were to tell you how this was so, I may not have a story to tell you, shall I? And, yes, this is a tale that has been told many a time over the years and across the land but I do not think you realise that the tale I am about to impart to you possesses many a truth not known to others._

_Now this farmer, whom we shall call Zaina, was still but a youth when he crossed paths with the strangest fox he had ever seen. Its eyes were a pale gold, as bright as the sun itself at its peak, and its fur played tricks upon his eyes for at a distance, it was the same shade of blue as the very lake we live upon, yet as one came closer, it was a grey akin to distant storm clouds. However, these two things paled upon the strangest feature this fox possessed and it was the three tails that stilled themselves beneath his gaze._

_Despite all these features, what caught his attention was a terrible wound upon its back leg, painting its fur bright red with blood._

_‘What a terrible wound!’ thought Zaina as he watched the fox watch him, wary of the human paying attention to it while it was so wounded. Compassion swelled in his breast and, slowly as to not startle the creature, Zaina approached it with raised hands. “Well met Master Fox,” began Zaina, not knowing if the fox could understand him but still choosing to speak in case it could. “If you would let me, then I shall bind your wound as best I can.”_

_The fox regarded him carefully with its golden eyes before nodding. Soon enough, the wound was cleaned, treated and bandaged and when Zaina sat back, the fox nodded its head to him in thanks. But this was not the end of it, for Zaina was worried about how the fox was going to feed and water itself and offered it shelter in his home. The fox shook its head and did not move from its place beneath the young oak._

_This, however, did not stop the youth from attempting to help in other ways. So for seven days, when his chores were done, Zaina would visit the fox beneath the young oak with a basket of food, water and clean bandages. While the fox would not speak, Zaina could see that it was an intelligent creature with a wicked humour and the lack of words between the pair did not stop them from befriending the other._

_It was on the seventh day that saw their strange friendship ending for the fox’s wound had mended itself within that time and Zaina felt sorrow at their parting for all that the fox was still a wild and untamed creature._

_When that last of the bandages fell from its leg, the fox shook itself and Zaina swore that he could see embers spark and glow amongst its tricky fur and long tails. Then it sat on its haunches and raised a dainty paw for Zaina to take. Bemused, he did, they shook and then that paw slipped out of his hand as easily as the fox did into the surrounding foliage. It looked back once, nodded its head, and Zaina knew that it would not be the last that he saw of the strange fox with three tails._

_And his prediction came true years later when he was a grown man, farming the land of his own forefathers. He has yet to take a wife for none seem to make his heart soar for all their beauty or kindness or skills and so lives alone, as though waiting. His wait ends when a long and hard winter makes it hard for him to farm the land for food to eat and crops to sell. One early spring morning, he finds a basket of fish outside his door- fat, long salmon that he shares with his neighbours with still one so large left for himself that it would feed him for four days if he is careful. Their eyes are clear, the scales are still wet from the river and, when Zaina prepares the fish for his morning meal, with flesh so firm that Zaina almost thinks that they were still alive when they came to him.  
When he sleeps that night, he sleeps with a full stomach and wakes, once more, to a basket at his door._

_In this, there are loaves of sweet bread that he has never tasted before. They are dark in colour yet this is not from leaving them amongst the fire for long, no, it is dark because of another reason and Zaina can taste chestnuts in it yet he cannot see any shape that resembles the nuts- broken or whole. He shares this with his neighbours as well and ignores the whispers and queries about his sudden streak of luck._

_He sleeps that night, again, wondering where these baskets are appearing from._

_The next morning there is, again, another basket with fruits and vegetables and roots from the wild. On the fourth morning the basket is filled with bolts of cloth and a coat- both are thick and warm and smelled faintly of flowers that Zaina cannot identify. The fifth morning is graced with a basket of rabbits and wild fowl. The sixth is a cage of four hens and a single rooster tied to the cage along with a hen house that had somehow been built in a single night.  
Yet when Zaina woke up on the seventh day, there was no gift at his door in the morning or at noon or the early evening. There were more whispers from his neighbours, wondering why his mysterious benefactor had stopped and if Zaina had offended them in some fashion._

_Zaina does not know yet is cannot help but be troubled by it for he had wanted to meet his benefactor and thank them for this kindness. It is only when he prepares himself for sleep that night that his wish is granted._

_There is a knock on his door and he roused himself up to answer, wondering who it could be when almost all were asleep in their beds, resting as much as they could for the long day ahead. And when he opened his door, there was a ball of ghostly blue fire as bright and cold as starlight and, in the distance beneath the silvery light of the full moon, there is the shadow of a fox with three tails trotting off into the woods just beyond his farm._

_The ghost fire- spirit fire and foxfire, for they are all one and the same, my children- drifts along after the fox’s path and Zaina could only follow, the realisation that the fox he had helped so long ago knew his benefactor was still fresh in his mind._

_Moonlight and starlight and foxfire all reveal the path to Zaina in the forest that has somehow darkened, cloaked in shadows that hid only secrets, not danger.  
And as they reached a clearing, Zaina was surprised to see it lit with more foxfire behind strange lanterns and a fine table in the centre heavy with strange yet enticing foods. There were only two lush cushions on either side, red flowers covered with thorns upon their stalks scented the air and Zaina knew that they were the origin of the scent clinging upon the coat that he now wore and the bolts of cloth in his home, and as Zaina took in this strange and mystical sight, he did not notice when he was no longer the only person within the clearing. _

_Haha, no, this is not where Zaina falls in love at first sight though he was mightily intrigued with this fae-like creature. She had long hair, as black as a moonless night yet when the light of foxfire and moonlight hit; it was as dark as the heart of black walnut. Her eyes were more gold than brown, like sunshine sparkling off rich honey and she wore strange robes that shifted between a blue like summer skies and a grey like glimmers of silver revealed beneath years of tarnish. The colours glowed when the lanterns revealed that she wore another robe beneath as white as newly fallen snow._

_“Would you dine with me on this full moon night?” she queried with a gentle smile to match her soft voice, foreign as it was, as she waved a hand at the table beneath the foxfire lanterns. “I swear that no harm shall come upon you before and during and after our meal.”_

_“If you do not mind the company of lowly farmer, my lady,” replied Zaina as he followed the actions of the lady and sat upon the cushion. “And before we dine, may I give you many thanks for the gifts that you have bestowed upon me this past week.”_

_The lady smiled, hiding it partially behind her wide sleeve. “No thanks are needed,” said the lady, pouring tea for both Zaina and herself with grace and elegance. “’Tis merely a debt finally repaid for an act done seasons past.”_

_And so they dined upon fish steamed with herbs and roots that fell apart in Zaina’s mouth with tantalising ease and a strange food from her homeland that she called ‘noodles’- yes, much like the bread and noodles that I make for you when we have flour to spare or when the acorns are bountiful in the autumn, and how you shall make them for your own children one day- that shone with the light oil coated upon it and drank a soup that was both light and heavy- rich from the bones and flesh of a wild suckling piglet, boiled with more wild roots and vegetables. And for their dessert, they had honeyed figs that were laced with the petals of the very flowers that decorated the clearing._

_Even so, while they dined and drank and watched the other, they also talked. The lady spoke of the things she had seen wandering the land- of the salt-laden air of the ocean and the creatures that could be found on its shores and under the waves; the crisp starkness of the mountains, both beautiful and dangerous; and the dry heat of the deserts, hiding jewels found in the winter-like nights under the cover of darkness. He told her the stories of his people, the tales they passed down to their children that had been passed down to them and the hopes that darkness that roamed the rest of the land would not fall upon them; the everyday concerns and matters that she would have missed in her restless travels; of tilling and sowing and caring for the land so that it may bestow upon them a fruitful bounty that would feed their town throughout the coming seasons._

_And as the evening wore on, they both kept silent of the truth that they would not give words to- that the lady dining and laughing and talking with him across the table was the fox that he had helped long ago._

_When the moon reached its zenith, the food eaten, the tea drunk and bellies full, the lady stood up and beckoned to Zaina. He followed her as she led him back through the forest and when they reached the tree line, she did not follow when he went on so that he may return to his own bed._

_And it is here where our story turns away from the tale woven to others outside of our family, for it is said here is when the farmer would turn back to ask the fox to marry him and be his wife and she agrees as she has loved him since that week years ago. However, she requests that on every full moon, he allows her to shut herself in a room within their house, and that he, and any children they have, must never ever look into it until dawn breaks the next day. He agrees and keeps this promise for years, as the town prospers like never before and five children are welcomed into their happy and loving home. Yet while the farmer keeps his promise to his wife, their children do not for they are as curious as their mother and on a full moon night, when their father has slipped into dreams, they peek in the room to see a fox as tall as the loom it is weaving at with a coat of fur that trick’s the eyes and eyes as golden as the sun in their mother’s place. The fox sees them in the doorway and a haunting cry comes from its muzzle. Ghostly blue fire sparks and burns from its fur yet it does not burn when both fox and fire rush past them, only the gust of warm air, and when Zaina rushes to the door, it is to see the fox that was his wife, disappear in the fields and woods away from their home and their family._

_They do not see her as she was- human, wife and mother- for as long as they live yet when trouble comes to either the still prosperous town or their home, it is always driven away by a haunting cry and ghostly blue fire and all would know and respect this as a sign that the fox-wife still loved her human husband and children long after their bones became ashes and the town a ruin. And that is why, when a town finally prospers after many hard years, they say that it is the fox-wife giving her blessings upon them._

_It is much like I said about their marriage; it is both a truth and a lie._

_It is true that he did stop, that he did turn back to the she-fox in a woman’s image and called out to her- but it was not to ask her to marry him, no, it was to ask for her name and if they would meet again._

_She stills in the moonlight, from where she was about to turn and stares at him with eyes that are no longer like sunstruck honey but the pale gold of noon-sun. For that moment her face is open, there is surprise in those eyes and the shy smile that spreads across that face reminds him of his childhood, the joy of running through the fields of wheat and corn and barley in high summer. That is when he falls a little in love with her and when he hears his name, he falls a little more._

_“My name is too foreign for these lands,” she says. “But you may call me Rose for that is what it means in your language, like the flowers that were in the clearing where we ate, and, if it pleases you, then you may see me when the summer comes.”_

_She disappears into the forest then, while Zaina thinks of those deep red flowers covered with wicked thorns as he stumbles into his home. Beauty and danger entwined in one and as Zaina falls asleep, he cannot help but think that the name and those flowers suit the fox and that he cannot wait until summer comes.  
As spring turns into summer and the crops are green and gold, he is once more given gifts in the morning for six days and on the seventh, he dines with a woman who is not a woman in a clearing in the forest under moonlight, starlight and foxfire with the scent of roses in the air. The only change is that he sees a fox by the forest on those six days and falls a little more in love when he hears of a blue fox with three tails that patrols the borders of the town, chasing away wolves and orcs and other unsavoury characters. And so this cycle continues as summer turns into autumn and autumn into winter- an entire year has passed and Zaina has learned much about Rose as a fox and as a woman just as Rose has learned much about Zaina as a man and a farmer._

_When the spring comes again and they once more dine under a full moon night in a clearing dotted with roses and foxfire lanterns. It is under that full moon and starry sky, on the outskirts of the forest that he asks her to marry him, be his wife and let him be her husband. She says yes and by mid-spring they are husband and wife, and Zaina no longer sees a strange fox slipping about the forest or patrolling the town, only shadows that he hears whispers of._

_They have five children, three boys and two girls, their farm is bountiful and their home is warm and filled with happiness. They grow old together and when Zaina dies, Rose waits until his pyre is lit before turning back into the youthful fox that she is and disappears from the gaze of the townsfolk forever, leaving in the hearts and minds the sound of a fox crying in sorrow and in joy, for his death and the life they had together, and the sight of ghostly blue fire that still patrols the town’s borders long after the bones of her children burn in their own pyre and their descendants gone for other lands._

_And while it is truth that a town that prospers has the fox-wife’s blessings, they always seek out a glimpse or sign of the fox herself and do not consider that they have her blessings because there are children of her blood within their midst who love the town and its people. If there are no blessings to be had, well, if those same children happen to have gifts to share amongst their neighbours when times are hard, there is no need to tell them that they saw their fox ancestress slip into their homes with a basket of food or cloth or furs to keep and share. Or to tell them that, sometimes, she will slips by to help kin that have features or gifts that no ordinary Man or Elf or Dwarf or Hobbit possess, or that she sometimes slips by to bestow wisdom and teachings upon her kin so that they can protect themselves and their loved ones._

_Aaah, I see you have figured it out! Yes, we are the blood of fae and kitsune but keep this secret within your hearts, my children, for unscrupulous men have tried to find and capture our grandmother by holding her kin hostage and the rage that takes over our ancestress is like a raging wildfire, terrible and destructive. If she does not kill them then she curses them with bad luck and misfortune until the scales are balanced, and only once has she driven a man to madness for he had spilled the blood of a child of her blood no older that you, my dears, and she could not forgive that murder.  
And so, my children, that is the true tale of our ancestors- the farmer called Zaina who married a fox called Rose._

 

Bard watched as Sigrid and Bain drifted off to sleep, curled up on his now-too-large bed while Tilda was cradled in his arms, still stubbornly awake though he could see that she was starting to lose the fight even with his tail in her small arms. There is a _‘click’_ behind him, of long and sharp nails on wood and Bard did not need to turn to know that it was his ancestress- the only grandmother in his life and his children’s.

There is warmth at this side and behind him as a grey-black snout gently nuzzles the fine hairs on Tilda’s head. Tilda sighs, eyes half-mast now and Bard can only smile warmly at the sense of _warm-love-hush_ and _newborn-kit-beloved-child-welcome_. Grandmother never talked much as a fox, the effort to fit human words in a fox’s muzzle was not worth it when one could speak through touch and heart. He sent back a sense of _welcome-thanks_ , _love-of-kith-and-kin_ and _lingering-grief-mate-gone-beyond_.

A brush of fur and tails to comfort him, an echo of similar grief and a sense of _will-stay-longer_ and all he could do was run calloused fingers through warm fur before moving to settle Tilda in her crib and climbing carefully into his own bed so that he could curl up behind Sigrid.

And if there is a river of soft notes to follow him into sleep and give them all sweet dreams, well, he cannot begrudge his grandmother her indulgences and merely…

drifts… 

off…


	2. If all else fails, kill it with fire AKA Burn, baby, burn!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I still have no idea what I'm doing. Just a vague plot and some very strong scenes that have been _blind-siding_ me while I was trying to get this chapter done. Kinda worried that I didn't get Thranduil's character down right since most of my POV of him tends to be through fanfics and various Tumblr blogs. I _really_ need to finish the book and the third movie.

Thranduil’s first notice that something _other_ \- that was not spiders or orcs or other trespassers- was wandering in his lands was not of the being itself but of what it left in its aftermath. 

His scouts would report of spider tracks in the forest and of squeals and snarls in the distance. Yet by the time they reached the battlegrounds, the only evidence left of the skirmish would be the burnt and curled remains of spiders and the scent of smoke in the air. The strangest thing, however, was that nothing but the spiders were burnt and burning, the trees and grounds untouched if not a touch... _more_ somehow.

The Elvenking of Mirkwood sipped his wine, his face a mask of serenity that hid his frustration and his curiosity. There was a creature wandering about in his forest, killing spiders and he did not know what it was- if it was even still a ‘what’. He did not think that it was on purpose though, as most of the skirmishes seemed to happen on the edges of Mirkwood and from what could be read of the few tracks left behind- the creature, whatever it was, had been ambushed and was defending themselves. But what sort of fire burned so fiercely yet could also do no harm? He couldn’t even ask any of the fauna within the forest for news since the spiders scared them off long before the attacks happened and the creature disappeared soon after killing the spiders.

His winding, frustrating thoughts were forced aside when Tauriel came striding in with a familiar look on her face that he had only recently started to attribute to the strange hunter in his realm.

“Another clearing of burnt spiders, I presume?” half-asked Thranduil dryly as Tauriel nodded, a reluctant glint of approval in her eyes. This would make it the fifth one in three months.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Tauriel as she stood at attention. “There were six this time and it seems that this skirmish was rather vicious on the side of the _nuar faer_ [1]. Half of the spiders had their legs torn off and one had its abdomen split in twain. From the tracks of…viscera around the site, it seems like the spider was alive for a long while after before it died.”

Thranduil felt an eyebrow raise itself. That _was_ new. The _nuar faer_ , as the scouts and patrols had taken to calling the creature, was always very clean in their kills- a cursory examination revealed that the spiders were always dead before they were burned by either an arrow or blade of some sort right between the eyes. For them to be so vicious in this skirmish, as Tauriel reported, meant very few things though only one- that the creature had also become as corrupted as many parts of his forest- was to be wary of. That other three possibilities- that there was another creature with the same or a similar nature; that it was or had been injured and had reacted as such; or that it was protecting something- were all equally likely but Thranduil could not judge which was the right situation just yet.

“And where had the skirmish occurred?”

“Closer to Esgaroth, my lord,” says Tauriel. “Long past where the mountain river joins the Forest River and barely hidden by the tree line.”  
Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. 

Esgaroth…

Waving for Tauriel to continue her report, Thranduil listened and as he did, he pondered over this revelation, the viciousness in the spiders’ deaths, and his previous thoughts. There was something in that triangle of information he had been given though what, exactly, could not be divined just yet and so the Elvenking tucked it away and focused on the present.

 

The first breakthrough in figuring out what the new creature roaming his realm, though Thranduil had not known then, happened as he was taking a rare walk in the woods and along the river. Rarer still, was the rare sound of a child’s laughter amongst and above the sound of the lake’s tide and Thranduil couldn’t help but seek out the source, memories of his son’s childhood and happier times echoing in his mind.

Half-hidden by a tree, Thranduil gazed across the river to see the bargeman and what looked like his children playing as he worked. The elder pair- a girl and a boy- seemed to be taking turns tossing each over the shoulder and he’d be far more worried if he hadn’t noticed some discrepancies in the actions of the entire family. The siblings were far too at ease with both the throws and at relaxing into the rolls to get back on their feet, reminding Thranduil of the mouser cats that he had once seen in Dale years ago. The third child had a crown of flowers upon her brow and was picking flowers as she hummed to herself, as if the scene of her siblings tossing each other was a common, everyday scene. 

And the father?

It seemed that in between keeping an eye on the humming child and the pair practicing what the Elvenking could only assume were practice drills, he was also giving them advice on how to control the strength and power of their throws as well as how to make their falls easier as he tied the barrels together on his barge. How curious- the bow near the bargeman indicated that he was an archer yet the advice he gave was sound and seemed to come from experience. The Elvenking hadn’t known that there was a warrior with any skill in Laketown. Of course, if one considered how vile its Master was, then maybe the bargeman kept his skills to himself so that he would not be so scrutinised. 

“Okay, that’s enough you two,” said the bargeman with a lilting voice, causing the pair to stop their practice and the youngest to look up curiously. “What do you all think about having lunch before we go home?”

There were cheers and agreements as the children mobbed their father like the fox cubs he had seen once, greeting their mother when she came back from a hunt with a fat rabbit only in this instance the parent held a bag of food along with a skin of water though it was more likely watered down wine. Food is shared- rolls of bread (that looked, curiously, as though they had been cut lengthways and stuffed with meat, cheese and salads before wrapped in bits of cloth) and fruit- as is the skin when one of the children call for it and throughout it all, the small family talk and tease and laugh. It is as nostalgic as it is bittersweet for he has always wanted more children to love and care for and siblings for his son to play with but that wish died with his wife and the walls around his heart.

Wistful, Thranduil watched with soft eyes as the small family finished their meal and settled onto the barge. The bargeman casted off and followed the current to Esgaroth and as he did, he gave into his children’s pleading and sang a song that struck deeply in the Elvenking’s heart as they went.

_“Even after our parting in the afternoon with the sun beaming through the trees_

_The promise of the world won’t ever end_

_Even if I’m alone now, tomorrow is limitless_

_You taught me about_

_The kindness that lurks in the night_

_You’re not in my memories_

_So live forever in the song of the streams_

_In the colour of this sky, in the fragrance of flowers”_

He waited until the last notes of the song died before returning to his walk and, when he was once more in his Halls, hummed to the tune of the bargeman’s song as he sat on his throne.

 

It is another two months before he considers taking another walk in his forest and by then the forest is awash in the shades of autumn as it prepares itself for winter. And if he happens to travel on the same path he did two months before and on the same day, well, that is his business and no one else’s. The bargeman is alone this time and happens to be doing target practice while waiting for the empty barrels to come. Thranduil watches curiously as the Man holds three arrows in one hand- one between each finger- and draws back his bow. He’s quite impressed when the arrows fly in quick succession, each arrow hitting wood in such a fashion that it almost sounded like a woodpecker making a home for itself. The Man was almost as good as an elf, maybe even better, thought Thranduil as he continued watching in interest until all the arrows in the quiver were gone and the barrels were turning the corner. 

He stayed to watch even though it looked somewhat tedious but he decided to focus on the bargeman who had been silent as he moved the barrels from the river to the barge. It only broke as he had been tying the barrels together and began to hum a tune- cheerful and light- that was only joined by words in a language that he had never heard before as the bargeman came ashore to retrieve his arrows. 

Thranduil stayed long enough to watch him return to his barge and cast off yet as he turned to leave, the bargeman’s head turned to look directly at Thranduil. A blink was the only sign of surprise at the Man’s action before it turned into a slight frown when the bargeman grinned unrepentantly and gave him a cheerful little wave before turning forwards again, singing a different song with a more wistfully hopeful tune.

_‘How did he know I was here?’_

(It was only after another two years, a courtship and a series of some inventive, exhaustive sex during that period that Bard would admit to catching Thranduil’s scent on the air that autumn day. “Like the forest in winter,” murmured Bard into Thranduil’s neck as he sat between the Elvenking’s legs, waiting for the wine barrels. “Not a deep winter where the snow and ice eats up even the sound of one’s breath, but of winter bleeding into spring where the sleeping forest- the sleeping earth- slowly wakes itself again to provide a bounty to those living beneath its eaves.”

Thranduil was so flattered by the comparison that he ‘thanked’ Bard thoroughly and lengthily. Bard managed to extricate himself before the barrels floated too far out before returning to kiss away the pout on the Elvenking’s face.)

 

His next walk occurs three weeks later and, this time, he’s on the same side that the bargeman picks up the barrels from. He’s a little late this time so he comes halfway into the chatter of the Man’s- whom Thranduil had finally learned was called Bard- youngest who seemed to be talking about how her new book on fairy tales seemed to be missing some important, to her, details. 

“-and then it doesn’t say anything about how the fox-wife had three tails or that she could make foxfire or that she could do any of the other things that you told us she could, Da!”

“Well, she doesn’t like much attention,” explains Bard to his indignant youngest- the delightful Tilda who seemed spirited and irrepressible to the Elvenking- as Thranduil tilted his head slightly. Fox-wife? He has not heard that term used amongst Men before let alone Elves and Dwarves. When had it come forth? “A lot of the stories I told you about her are limited to only children of her blood- married or adopted included- and the people that live amongst them for so long they may as well be kin. Apart from us, here in Laketown, the only places who even tell any tales with more than a grain of truth in them about the fox-wife are a town of Dorwinions down the River Running, the ones who live closest to the Sea of Rhûn, and a small merchant clan who travel frequently between Gondor, Rohan and Rhovanion. 

“Anyone outside of that only thinks of the fox-wife as some minor faery that didn’t have much talent beyond what could be told from that story. That she did not have a coat of fur that was both blue and grey and neither; that ghostly foxfire burned in her fur when she wished; that she did not have more than one tail, now nine since she has passed her thousandth year; that she could not create illusions so real that the world took it as truth when she imposed her will upon it; and that she could only change from the shape of a fox to that of a woman and not to whatever she wished to be.”

“But _why_ , Da?” asked Tilda with an adorable frown on her face that Thranduil took note of even as he took in Bard’s description of this fox-wife. While he wasn’t sure about the other abilities, the one about this ‘ghostly foxfire’ seemed to fit what had happened to the spiders in the past three seasons. Was this fox-wife the creature that he and his people were seeking?

“Because before the stories were changed, people hunted her and her children in hopes that that prosperity could be granted to them,” explained Bard plainly, a dark look in his eyes. “They thought of the riches that could be within their reach if they had the fox-wife in their grasp once she became a symbol of wealth. They would even kidnap her children, thinking that they too could give them wealth and prosperity or that they could use them to threaten and bind the fox-wife to them, never realising that they would only gain misfortune and ill luck instead, handed to them by a furious and wrathful fox spirit. Because the blessings fox spirit, a kitsune, are not material things.

“You have to understand, dear heart,” continued Bard and Thranduil and Tilda listened intently though for entirely different reasons. For Tilda, this was an explanation to help her understand a beloved and honoured family member. For Thranduil, this was a story that he was missing pieces of that he now dearly wished to know. “The blessings of a fox spirit, a kitsune, are not material things- it is luck, knowledge, protection or fruitful bounties from the land itself. The fox-wife, our ancestress and our Grandmother, loves us all dearly, for we are children of her blood and we are kin, and she would not stand for us to be threatened so by greedy fools, just as we would not let her suffer the ill intentions of those same fools that had heard of her tale. So we spread a new story to protect both her and us even as she retreated further into her solitude- broken only to visit her kin or to bring to us foundling children she saved and cared for with no kin to take them in. Barring us and them, people think that she is either a figure from an old story or dead and gone beyond mortal reach.”  
There was a heavy silence after the bargeman’s heavy words. Tilde looked thoughtful as she turned over this new information in her head while Bard simply continued to roll up the wine barrels onto his barge. Thoughts rushed in Thranduil’s head as he looked at the bargeman and his youngest with new eyes. 

Blood and kin.

Were they the reason why this fox-wife, this… _kitsune_ , had been killing spiders? He did not know and could not say, but as he watched as Bard casted off with all the barrels accounted for and a once-again cheerful Tilda chattering to him like a robin in spring joy, he decided that next time he would speak to the bargeman in person.

When Thranduil turned to return to his Halls, he never noticed when Bard glanced back to the exact place where the Elvenking had once been standing at before Tilda and the tides called his attention again.

 

He is hidden behind the tree line again, exactly on time as he watches Bard moor his barge on the banks nearest to the mouth of the Forest River. There is still time before the barrels come down with the currents so, deliberately making noise as he did so, Thranduil steps out onto rocky shore and is immediately greeted by laughing eyes of gold-flecked grey and a teasing quirk of the mouth. It was strangely warm, since they were more or less strangers to each other, but considering how Bard had somehow noticed that he had been watching him across the river and his recent knowledge of the blood of some _Other_ running through the bowman’s veins, maybe they could be considered something along the line of distant acquaintances.

“Greetings Master Elf,” greets Bard politely, respectfully, pairing his salutations with a nod. “What can I do for you on this chill day?”

They did not give form to the words that they did not wish to say just yet and instead, Thranduil tilted his head slightly in response before speaking. “If…” began Thranduil slowly, watching Bard’s reaction carefully. “If I were to ask if you knew what was killing the spiders roaming my forest, leaving behind charred corpses, what would you say?”

“That I may know of the creature,” replied Bard calmly, carefully not reacting to the Elvenking’s query, something that the latter immediately took note of. “They are a private creature, peaceful and respectful and slightly mischievous. They only ever defend themselves, or others, from attacks.”

“Then how do they act when they are provoked? Or wronged?”

“They seek a suitable retribution,” Bard’s voice still calm but there was steel beneath it and in those gold-flecked eyes, if well hidden. “Until the scales are balanced once more. But only upon those who wronged them.”

_Even if it must be paid in blood._

The words hung in the air, unspoken, but Thranduil could read them easily enough and inclined his head in understanding- though he was sure that he did not understand everything about the creature, the fox-wife, completely. 

And he was dearly curious about this creature that he had never ever heard of. But he had gotten his answer, vague though it was and from a Man that would likely not say a thing to what he would perceive as a stranger. 

There was the sound of barrels in running water, and the air between them was broken. Bard does not hesitate to go straight to work and Thranduil, strangely, feels himself amused at the Man’s bravery- or foolishness- to be so willing to dismiss him and show his back to an elf. So he stays in place, watching Bard move the barrels ashore then onto his boat and thinks to himself that he may not be able to understand much of the fox-wife’s kin either. Not unless he asks.

But he won’t, not just yet, and instead focuses on the toiling bargeman, the warmth of the sunlight and the crispness of autumn chill. A quarter of the barrels are in the barge when Thranduil starts to notice things about Bard the bowman- things that are not the man’s worn but obviously well-loved clothing or his surprisingly pleasant and rough features. There’s a strange grace to the bowman that Thranduil cannot attribute to being alert to his surroundings, to experience handling the barrels or a result of whatever training he had taken- Thranduil knew Girion’s line, and they were mortal men, had been for generations though he could allow for a possible Silvan ancestor at least an Age in the past, maybe more. The only change would be the more recent ancestry that he had overheard last week and he did not know if the blood of the kitsune could be entirely to blame.

The lightness of his footsteps; the slightest tilt to the corners of his eyes that he had never seen in other Men before yet he and his children seem to carry; the gold in his eyes that, at a second and third glance, seemed vaguely familiar yet also definitively not-human; and there was something else about the bargeman that he couldn’t give words to, something hidden behind the Man’s mortal shell that taunted and beckoned as much as it rebuffed and slipped away from seeking eyes.

It was intriguing and interesting and somewhat annoying- all of it refreshing and making the Elvenking think that he was looking a bit too afar when what he was looking for was far closer than he thought. 

The last barrel is rolled onto the barge and his contemplations are tucked away for later thought as he refocuses on the bowman. The Man stretches, one arm bent and then the other, and Thranduil cannot help the slight smirk on his face when he notices that even with his supposed nonchalance, Bard was still keeping an eye- or a sense- on him. Bard is on his vessel and about to cast off when Thranduil speaks up once more, and gold-flecked grey meets his.  
“It is not your kin that had been crossing the paths of spiders, is it?”

Gold danced in laughing eyes, like the flickers and sparks of a fire or sunlight through the forest canopy, and lips did not widen but instead tilt, slightly, as though wanting to share a secret or a particularly amusing trick. Bard does not answer his question and pushes off, not-smile still in place, and lets the currents take him back to Esgaroth.

The silence is enough of an answer to satisfy Thranduil, for now, and when Bard waves in farewell, he nods in reply before he turns to disappear into his forest. 

It is a strange game that they are beginning to play but Thranduil thinks that he will not regret playing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] _Nuar faer_ \- spirit flame, roughly. Used an online Sindarian dictionary for this so I think it's right but well, internet. 
> 
> The song lyrics are from _Sekai no Yakusoku_ / _The Promise of the World_ from Studio Ghlibi's _Howl's Moving Castle_. (Why yes, I do happen to be a Ghlibi fan :D)
> 
> Also, fffff, it all goes so well until the end part of the chapter. Three re-writes and a struggle to get anything down for at least three days because I kept thinking that I was either going too fast or simply putting down an entire block of word vomit/text block that had nothing to do with the plot of the chapter or just- ;kljhkjhbbsgf. 
> 
> Still kept the stuff I rejected though. They were very good for working out Bard's family tree and to work out some traditions that Hong/'Rose' would have brought along with her and changed or picked from folktales/legends that _she's_ read or heard. Slapdash traditions more or less.
> 
> How the fuck do I centre texts on this thing? I wanted to centre the lyrics but I'm not so good with with some of this editing shit.


	3. The thing about plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a reference to Vathara's _Embers_ in here. Read it, for the love of all that is Holy. It is the best AtLA fanfic I have ever read, one of the best fanfics in the world of fanfiction and a damn good author, hands down. _Read._ _It._ You'll find it on FF.Net, just look up Vathara.
> 
> Also, I tried sass and banter. Did I succeed? Fuck if I know, I just write what I think goes with the flow the story.

Vibrant autumn turned into harsh winter and throughout it all, as the weeks passed, Bard and Thranduil met at the mouth of the Forest River once a week without fail for a handful of hours. Sometimes the Elvenking would simply watch Bard work, and other times they would play their game of words- unspoken and spoken- leaving the other to puzzle out secrets and truth amongst truths scattered like dandelion seeds upon the wind to rest wherever they wish. It would be the most fun either would have, eyes dancing as teased and taunted each other, triumphant when the truth of truths had been rooted out and exposed to sun and air and eyes that belonged to this small world that they have created for themselves. 

Sometimes, when silence was not what they sought nor did they wish to play their game, they spoke of their children and their wives and of their people.   
It was a friendship and a change of pace that they both enjoyed. And if, despite the short time they spent together, they were starting to see the other in another light…

Well, no one else had to know just yet.

 

As the temperature steadily began to drop, the closer it got to the middle of winter, Bard found himself regularly waking up to a blanket of children, seeking and conserving heat throughout the nights that multiple blankets and furs can barely ward off in their own beds. And when one considers how warm he always is compared to a regular person, fire burning in his core and through his veins, he is honestly surprised that it took so long for his children to puppy pile him. The only thing he can do to make his bed warmer would be to shift into his fox form but doing so would leave a problem when he changed back in the morning- a tail could be hidden in his pants, around his waist or even by his coat, if he was careful, but a pair of ears? It would take them some hours to shift back and he had always been rubbish at illusions. 

A shadow in the corner of the eye; to make a person’s eyes _slide_ past him as he walked past; the sudden creak of wood; to blur the edges of a shape or body so that a person must take a second look to assure themselves of their own sanity- they were easy things to do. 

Simple things. 

A person’s mind was always willing to explain away small things, and even big things in the right conditions, but fox ears perched upon a person’s head? And the shadow of them as well? By the Valar, he was not Grandmother who could bend the rules of the world itself with her illusions and not even the one child who had taken after her the most could do such a thing, merely cast veils upon watching eyes and formless images that could not touch the world around it yet still fool any being watching.

So he stayed in human form, though he may have let out his tail to the delight of his youngest (still enchanted with its silky fur and the silver that dotted the hairs closest to his spine), and made sure that there were no gaps in the blankets and furs to let in cold air before and after he went to bed with the children. As it was, his tail was only ever let out in bed but when grey, winter skies chased even the Master’s spies inside, a winter furred tail was soon seen everywhere else in the house.

Then one threatening winter morning saw Bard hiding his tail underneath his coat for extra warmth as he went to collect the wine barrels from the Forest River. Snow danced upon the wind, not heavy or strong enough to worry about yet, but as Bard kept glancing up at the sky, making sure that his scarf (the first one that Sigrid had made from brown wool she had bartered three rabbit furs and some sewing for) didn’t fall past his nose as he did so, he could see a storm rumbling in the distance. The water was starting to look rough as well and Bard was very sure that he was going to be forced to, disappointingly, cut his meeting with Thranduil short if he wanted to get home without the risk of capsizing his boat in the freezing lake.

_‘It was a pleasant surprise that Grandmother had even pulled herself out of whatever burrow she had camped out in during the winter, let alone come by to drop off a few gifts,’_ thought Bard as he eyed the small jars of honey pear and honey lemon tea sitting in a sturdy box by his foot and thought of the larger jars that sat in the now half-full pantry back home along with a thick quilt with squares of rabbit fur and stuffed with what was likely down from how soft it was. _‘She was even nice enough to build up the fire and make us breakfast as well; even if she left soon after and gave us a storm warning.’_

And it had been a good breakfast- chicken noodle soup with pumpkin seed loaves and honey lemon tea first thing in morning? With plenty of bread and noodles left for the rest of the day and even tomorrow, especially with more food to last them even longer? Warmed and full, he could still taste the salty broth on his tongue even though it was almost midday. And as for the warning, well, he could feel it in his bones as well- the urge to eat his fill and then go to ground before the storm hit but he couldn’t tell how long like Grandmother did and she said it would last for at least today and tomorrow. At least there would be enough food for them to stretch out for at least a week if they had to.

Soon enough, Bard was mooring his barge by the mouth of the river and had barely stepped off when Thranduil appeared. His greeting died on his tongue when he noticed the tense frame of his friend and how the elf was clad in light armour with swords at his sides. “What trouble are we expecting?” Bard asked instead, leaning back into his barge to grab his yew bow and slinging on his quiver even as he made sure that the spare oar and the hooked staff he used to grab the barrels were easily accessible.

“Likely spiders, possibly orcs, and if we’re particularly unlucky, maybe both at the same time,” replied Thranduil tersely yet there was still a dryness to his voice that had Bard barking out a laugh that was a bit too fox-like. “I hope that you’re as talented with that bow as you claim to be, I will be most disappointed if I win our little game by default.”

“I see that imminent danger has yet to dull your tongue, though I doubt that there are few things that can,” retorted Bard as he considered whether taking off his scarf and coat would be a good idea or not. Thranduil most likely knew that he was the one who had been killing those spiders for the past year so (just as he had figured out that he had been teasing and chatting with the Woodland King for the past six months) he would likely be more curious and amused at his tail than anything else but the weather was starting to get worse and he didn’t want to lose what warmth he currently had. “I thought that the snow and coming storm would kill or at least dissuade either from wandering around the forest. Were they seeking shelter under the tree or are they hunting?”

“The latter most likely,” replied Thranduil as he kept an eye on their surroundings, ignoring the barrels that were coming down the river and how Bard began to pull them all ashore quickly but trusting the elf to watch his back and warn him. “The spiders usually go to ground but the foul presence of the orcs may have convinced them to do a little more hunting or to join forces temporarily for more prey.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Bard as he dragged in the last barrel. With quick movements, he began to roll them onto the barge while keeping his bow within reach at all times. “And here I thought I would be able to grab the barrels, give you a small gift and then go home. A good plan, a simple plan- I should have remembered what Grandmother said about plans.”

“And what, pray tell, did she say about plans?” asked Thranduil, amused by his mortal’s mutters. Before it was wiped away as he drew his swords with a ring of metal, Bard straightened immediately and grabbed his bow just as shrieks pierced the air along with a few guttural voices. 

Spiders crashed out in the open, chasing orcs that had raised their blades and that soon died with arrows in their heads while Thranduil pounced on the spiders, blade singing and flashing as it cut through flesh. Another handful of arrows, spiders died with one or two arrows through their heads and eyes or by elven blade and yet more still appeared from the forest when one shrieked like they were on fire. Bard would know- he’d killed one by burning it alive once when they got a little too close to having a fox dinner. His quiver was empty after the eighth spider and then he was forced to break the oar in half to impale two spiders with after leaping onto their backs. 

Legs and heads were flying from where Thranduil was fighting but the snow was starting to fall harder and the wind was cuttingly cold. There were more orcish voices in the forest, causing Bard to curse a blue streak even as he used his hooked staff to ward off, blind and kill a spider even if the shouted Sindarian gave him hope. The last spider was killed by Thranduil just as the orcs ran out and Bard cursed some more at the pack that was still at least fifteen strong and he could hear more amongst elvish curses behind the tree line.

His quiver was empty; his spare oar in two spiders and his hooked staff was still stuck in another. But his bow was at his feet and the staff could be easily replaced if he set it alight. So Bard, for the moment, ignored the wind-blown snow and the orcs and the elves and Thranduil who was likely calling him all kinds of fool for stopping in the middle of a fight. He breathed in through the nose, held it for a moment, and then breathed out through his mouth.

_Fire eats others to live and so as the world exists, it gives us all the fuel that we need and_ do not need. _Remember kit, child of my blood-_

“Everything burns.”

It was a whisper on the howling wind, barely caught by Thranduil as he killed an orc with a swing of his blade but the spark and burn of fire _was not_ missed as gold and silver-grey danced in black like delighted children and flames burned fiercely despite the growing wind that made shooting arrows unwise, leaving elves and orcs alike to resort to blades lest they hit their own in their skirmish. Thranduil blinked spots from his eyes, slaying another two as his mind returned to the skirmish, before his blue gaze sought out Bard once more to see the that the bowman had become a confident glaive-wielder though his glaive seemed to have been made from his hooked staff and black fire that struck down and burned orcs no matter which way it swung. 

And then Bard and Thranduil were standing shoulder-to-shoulder amongst dead and smoking bodies, the orcs swiftly dealt with when the patrol finished their quarry in the trees and caught up to deal with the ones by the river. Curious and wary, the patrol watched as the fiery glaive blade crackled and danced, shifting shades of gold and silver-grey amongst black, before it was snuffed out with a single exhale. Thranduil flicked his blades to rid them of the black blood coating its length before sheathing them, facing Bard as he did so.

Gold flecks blazed amongst grey eyes like beams of noon sun striking ice on a clear, winter day- it was striking and ephemeral and warm. He held that gaze for a moment before smirking, making Bard raise an eyebrow in question. “So what did she say about plans?” asked Thranduil as Bard barked out another laugh that was half-stolen by the winds of the oncoming storm. 

Gold and grey, dancing like the heart of that black fire, crinkled with a smile even if half of Bard’s face was still covered by his scarf that had miraculously stayed in place. Then Bard glanced at the bodies of orcs and spiders, the elven patrol that was now slightly shocked at how downright amiable their king was, and the howling wind that was starting to make anything further than six metres impossible to see and the lake impassable. Bard sighed and leaned slightly onto the remains of his hooked staff, a rueful tone colouring his voice as he spoke.

“That they never survive contact with the enemy.”

It was overwhelmed by the wind, but it rang in his ears as Thranduil laughed, and despite the outright surprise on the elven patrol’s faces, Bard couldn’t help but laugh quietly as well.

Then wind howled like hunting wolves and as the storm came upon them, Bard couldn’t help but be relieved that his children knew of his friendship with Thranduil (though he had yet to tell them that his elf friend was the Elvenking), when Thranduil offered to house him in his Halls until the storm was over. “I insist that you stay as it is likely that you won’t be sailing until tomorrow at the earliest,” said Thranduil as he watched Bard tuck his scarf into his fur jacket. “And your children are clever, I’m sure that they will have guessed that I gave you shelter.”

Bard sighed but nodded. “Aye, they would,” agreed Bard as he quickly leaned into his barge to retrieve the tea and place the remains of his staff on the deck. “Then my thanks, my lord Thranduil, and I hope that you can take having me as your guest for however long the storm lasts. Also, your gift, and if you wish for more, please ask. I’m sure Grandmother would feel quite complimented by the requests.”

Without care, Bard held out the box wrapped with rope and knots that formed simple patterns, dropped it into an amused and startled Thranduil’s arms and then started walking towards the now outright shocked patrol. “Well? Are we going to get out of the storm or not?”

Thranduil laughed, cradling the jars close, before he was suddenly at Bard’s side making the bargeman startle slightly and mock-scowl at the grinning elf. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, fox,” tutted Thranduil as they continued walking side-by-side and the patrol quickly took guard around them. “You’ll get lost and buried in snow, and then what shall I tell your children?”

“That you found me and decided that I made a fine pelt, by the silver in my fur, though you would have preferred me as a pet.”

There was another laugh and elven eyes widened as a white-tipped black tail revealed itself from under the bargeman’s coat before curling back up, leaving the barest fringe of black as the only evidence of its existence. Then wind-blown snow and ancient trees hid them from sight and all that was left was a lonely barge at the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this chapter out a lot easier than I thought. Very surprising. It was meant to be a bit longer but then I decided to cut it in two and stop it there for this chapter. Also, honey citron tea? Apparently very easy to make at home with any citrus you got (I think, I only looked up the recipe online and it used pomelos). Saw two different recipes for it with different measurements so I'm just gonna throw it out there for people who want to make it at home and play around with the recipe. Tell me if it works for you or what you did to make it work :), I'm curious to hear. Don't ask about the honey pear one- I think there's a very big difference between the actual pear tea and the Korean jar type that you can get at Asian stores.
> 
> So, basically, about half a kilo/a pound (?) of citrus, a quarter cup/half a pound of water and three quarters/half a pound of honey. Keep everything from the citruses except the piths and seeds, slice up the zest that you do have over along with whatever flesh after juicing. Add it and water to the honey and stir until it gets somewhat syrupy- make sure that there's still a little resistance to it but not as much like when you drag a spoon through pure honey. Put into a clean/sterilised jar then put in the fridge for about 1-4 weeks, depends. Once the time's over, ta-dah! Honey citron tea. But I'd suggest Googling the recipe just in case. This is all from memory so I might be wrong on some parts.


	4. Hope is a thing with feathers, perched upon the soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....enjoy? *swans off awkwardly*

They return before the storm makes travel impossible and the Halls of the Elvenking are soon rife with whispers by the time Thranduil settles Bard in his guest room, close to his quarters, and calls for a meal for them both before setting off to deal with some minor issues of the realm before retiring for the rest of the night. 

Who was this human that knew their king? What was he to their lord? The Man’s quiver was empty, was he a hunter who got lost in the storm? Did he get set upon by orcs and spiders when their king came upon him or did he come upon their king? 

The patrol was besieged by these questions and the answers that they gave merely spawned more. 

The man was named Bard, and the bargeman who took their barrels- thoughtful and a skilled warrior, from the bodies that littered the shoreline. Their king called him fox and spoke to him fondly, quite likely a friend that he had made on his walks. He helped their king when the spider-driven orcs came upon them both by the mouth of the Forest River that fed the lake and, from the white-tipped tail that they all swore that they saw, it is likely that the Man isn’t wholly a Man at all and is, in fact, the creature killing and burning spiders for the majority of the past year.

But what creature could he be? Their lord calls him fox but what fox could call fire? The only creature that they knew could call upon devouring flames was dragons and they knew nothing of the creatures to the Far East or to the south amongst the Haradrim. Is he a skin-changer like Beorn, who lived far beyond their borders?

Those questions they could not answer but the Man was currently a guest of their king for as long as the storm raged. Maybe, during that time, they could tease out answers to their questions.

 

It is Legolas who meets Bard first, but then the young prince always had his father’s confidence even when they were at odds. He had been told of his father’s suspicions and bits of his surprising friendship with the Man but now that the Man was here and he was eager to finally place a face to the name and stories that he had been told (if they happen to be mainly focused on said Man’s children, well, the joy of children was rare and Tauriel, while young, was no child even when she was sheltered under his father’s wing). 

They meet just as Bard was about to seek out the baths- or at least directions to the baths-, barely stopping from walking into the other in the hallway outside of Bard’s guest room. There was no tail, as the patrols had sworn they saw, but he is given evidence of Bard’s thoughtfulness once the apologies are said and he asks if Legolas is unharmed though they had barely even brushed upon the other and the very real reminder that he is an elf, and thus, not as easily harmed as Men. Legolas reassures Bard, taking in the lines of the Man’s face that speak more of laughter and smiles than they do of worry or sadness (though if there were many of the latter pair then the former were quick to overshine them), that he is unharmed and that there is no need to apologise for a simple accident.

Honesty paints Bard’s words and actions and when Legolas shows him the way to the communal baths (curious about how the Man seemed to be comfortable in such a situation when he had heard about their prudishness), they talk and Legolas can see why his father enjoys talking to Bard, just a bit. The Man is quick and clever with his words (why, when he had finally introduced himself, Bard’s reply to his name had been to say ‘Thranduil’s son’ and not ‘Prince of Greenwood’, with a playful and knowing glint in his eyes) but ask him of children and Bard would beam and chatter, love and pride in every action and word.  
By the time both were done and walking back to Bard’s rooms, somehow managing to get Bard to agree to come down to the training halls for a friendly archery match the next day, Legolas could see them becoming good friends.

(If Legolas happens to notice the _otherness_ that clings to Bard, when he pays attention, then he says nothing of it because despite the sense of _wildness_ and the crackling of _fire_ , there is no sense of danger attached to either merely a sense of _is_ and _safe_. It doesn’t make sense and yet it does make a sense in a strange fashion, and so all Legolas can do is wait until he has a chance to ask. And, like all elves, he is very good at waiting.)

Though their prince manages to talk to the Man first, Galion is the second and is also the first to give the other elves some information on the Man.  
With Legolas gone to dine with his people, satisfied with what he had seen and heard beforehand, Galion appeared at Bard’s door a few hours later since he had been tasked with leading Bard to Thranduil’s wing so that they could continue their conversation from the previous week and for a private meal. They did not talk much as they walked but there was still some and when he parts with the Man close to the doors to his lord’s rooms, it is with some information to feed the masses for the night and a favourable impression of the Man that has caught his king’s attention.

 

The question comes after Bard is warm and full from food and drink and conversation. Their talk had turned to their parents or, at least, people who had a great hand in their childhood. He half expected it when Thranduil began asking about Grandmother and her travels which had spanned from the Shire to Minas Tirith, and from Arnor to Rhûn, and even to Harad. And, it seemed, that wherever she went, Grandmother managed to either make friends or have thankful people in her debt- which was strange considering how she tended to avoid or distance herself from people. 

“Not to say that she wasn’t kind or polite to the people she did meet,” Bard was quick to say to Thranduil. “Just that she preferred her own company or the company of those who wouldn’t mind her not talking much.” 

“Does that mean that she travelled more as a fox than not?”

Bard nodded in response to the question and was only mildly surprised the next.

“Can you change into a fox?”

Unvoiced, but Bard could hear the word _willingly_ trail after the question.

“Surprisingly, yes,” admitted Bard easily, smiling into his wine cup when eyes watched him curiously. “Even Grandmother was surprised. Most of her kin have gifts, weak and strong, born of her blood but to be able to shapeshift was something that was never passed down because even with her blood in our veins, all of us are still children of Men. Even when her children were alive, Gwenaëlle- who took after Grandmother the most in heritage- could not shift into a fox. She had a tail, yes, which grew into three by the time of her death, but hiding them was easy since tucking them away was not shapeshifting, exactly.”  
Here, Bard shrugged and took another sip of his wine.

“Can you show it to me? Your form?” asked Thranduil with a sense of curiosity that Bard could practically feel. “I’m curious to see what you meant by the silver in your fur.”

Bard grinned at Thranduil over his cup. “So that was your plan, eh?”

Thranduil smirked in reply as Bard laughed. He may be a bargeman but was no fool- clever and respectful, cunning and polite. One must be all these when interacting with spirits- even Grandmother, for all the fierce love she held for them but by the Valar, she was _not safe_ , even when she tried very hard to be- and, it seemed, that such things were useful in dealing with elves as well. Setting down his cup, Bard straightened his spine and, without moving from his seat, _shifted_.

Despite watching with avid interest, Thranduil would later admit to his son that he could not exactly describe how Bard shifted into his fox form quite well. Only that there was a blurring at the edges of his form, flickers and sparks of embers, and a smooth transition that saw, instead of a Man sitting in the high-backed chair, a black fox with golden eyes and tints of silver that lightly dusted furred shoulders, gathering more silver down his back like the Dawduin before spreading out like spilled ink on parchment along his flanks and the base of his tail. 

There was a puppy-ish grin, playful and laughing, and then Bard slipped onto the floor with a faint _click-click_ of nails on stone and Thranduil was fascinated to see that, standing on all fours, Bard the fox was twice the height and size of any normal fox or even the hunting dogs that they sometimes used, with his furry black head (his _head_ , not his ears) stopping halfway up his thigh and he was _an elf_. On a normal Man, that would mean that the head of Bard the fox reached their hip _easily_. And then Bard was moving.

_Click-click. Click-click. Click-click._

Silvery-blue eyes watched as Bard calmly walked the space between them before stopping, just beside his left. The silence grows between them as Bard pauses before, deliberately slowly, he sits and rests his head upon Thranduil’s thigh, his eyes never leaving Thranduil’s as he did so. 

One breath.

Two.

And then Thranduil takes the chance that Bard is silently offering. There is a tremor in his heart- a flutter of hope, a tremulous joy, as he says the words that would shift what their relationship was now.

“Meleth nîn.” 

It is neither whispered nor shouted and when Thranduil places his hand between silky-soft ears and digs his fingers lightly into winter-thick fur, Bard sighs peacefully, leans into the touch and places a paw next to his black muzzle. He knows that Bard does not know a single word in Sindarian but that doesn’t matter when there is a gentle brush against his mind- a request that he grants immediately- and then there is a tender, vibrant joy to reflect his own and the warmth of a reciprocated love.

Thranduil relaxes, there is a smile upon his lips and Bard deigns not to change back just yet even when he pulls his mind back from Thranduil’s. 

They simply sit in silence, and enjoy the presence of the other. 

Everything else could come later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwenaëlle- modern feminine form of Breton Gwenaël- gwenn "white, fair; blessed" and hael "generous" (wikipedia)
> 
> Dawduin- Night River; which is what I'm calling the Milky Way here unless someone can find the canon title/name for it
> 
> It's shorter than my other chapters and all I could bear to put into it. I think I got stalled somewhere near the end so the next chapter is likely going to have a time skip- not sure how long but definitely not to the point where we get to the beginning of the Hobbit.
> 
> Also...did I make the relationship a bit too fast? I mean, we all know that BoFA saw their relationship going from strangers to bros in, like, zero seconds but that was the movie- they gotta be fast- and the book seems to imply that they know each other vaguely- more of a from friend of a friend, sorta thing- but this fic counts at least them knowing each other for about 6-8 months. It could be just their chemistry acting up but still, thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I have no idea where this story is going, where the eventual series is going or what I've written, exactly. All I know is that I wanted a happy/happier ending for these two guys because I kinda got tired/frustrated/sadsadSAD/trying-hard-not-to-cry about the eventual end of their relationship. So, yeah. 
> 
> I'm trying to stay true to kitsune mythology/folklore while still adding a few extra bits/boosts thanks to it being Tolkien-verse and various influences of other Eastern mythologies. Which I'm not mentioning right now because this is a Barduil fic and not some OFC/maybe-Mary-Sue-centric fic. But I'll provide a bit of a background for 'Rose'/Hong (Vietnamese girl's name which means both 'rose' and 'pink' while in Cantonese and some other Chinese dialects its means 'red') in a another (short) chapter so that you'll know why, exactly, does Bard have a fluffy, fluff fluff tail.


End file.
